Unfolding

If there is no spirit unfolding itself in history,No gradual growth of consciousnessBeneath the land grabs and forced migrations,The bought elections, the betrayal of trustBy party faction in the name of progress—What about spirit in the personal realmUnfolding slowly inside us, so slowlyThat our best days seem like a holding action?Seasons repeat themselves, but the treeShading the yard keeps growing.Don’t be chagrined that the sadness you feltThis evening beside the bed of a friendWho’s growing weaker wasn’t more profoundThan the sadness of yesterday, that you stillCan’t imagine a fraction of what he’s feelingAs the world he loves slips from his grasp.No progress from your perspective,But who’s to say what you might noticeIf the scroll of the last few months were unrolledOn the table before you, how clear it might beThat your understanding of all you’re losingIn losing him has been slowly deepening?Another day, you say to yourself, at duskAs you climb your porch steps, which you noticeCould use some scraping and painting this weekend,A fresh coat that with luck will last a year.

Under the southern portion of the city exists its negative image: a network of more than two hundred miles of galleries, rooms, and chambers.

As the years passed, Tom grew more entrenched in his homelessness. He was absorbed in lofty fantasies and private missions, aware of the basest necessities and the most transcendent abstractions, and almost nothing in between.